Bobbi

Perry’s comments came to mind as I pushed the cart to Reynolds’ cell. The thought of him shanking me with a sharpened spoon handle was laughable. I had, however, realized I knew absolutely nothing about him.

I unlocked the slot and reached for his tray. “Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast.”

I peered into his cell. On the floor doing sit-ups, he turned his head to the side. “Ten seconds.”

He did two more and then stood. “I hate stopping short of a set. I feel like it’s cheating.” He looked at me and smiled. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Oatmeal. Eggs. Coffee.”

He grabbed the tray and set it on his sink. “Sounds filling.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” I said.

He arched an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Keep up your positive attitude. You’re consistently happy.”

“I’m not happy. I’m content. There’s a difference.”

“Okay. I don’t know how you stay content.”

“I don’t like it here,” he said. “No offense, but this place is a shit-hole. But. You know what?”

“What?”

“I can’t change the fact that I’m here. I can either accept it, or I can sulk. I choose to accept it.”

“I like your way of thinking.”

He leaned toward the door, looked me over, and then straightened his posture. “I like your hair. It looks nice.”

I had it highlighted the night before. So far, he was the only one who noticed. It made the money I spent getting it done seem like it was worth it. “I just got it done,” I whispered. “$150. It makes me sick what they charge.”

“Money well spent. It looks great.”

Officer Perry was wrong about Reynolds, I was sure of it. Well, pretty sure of it. I glanced down the cellblock and let out a sigh. There were six more cells to go, and if I took too much time talking, the remaining inmates would start banging on their cell doors.

I shifted my eyes to Reynolds. “Can I ask you a question?”

He crossed his arms. “Sure.”

“Other than riding in the motorcycle club, did you have a job? You know, before you were arrested?” I asked, hoping not to sound too intrusive.

“I do. Or, I did. Kind of. It was unconventional, but a job nonetheless.”

I wanted to know more about him. I needed to know that he was the person I perceived him as being, and that Perry was wrong about him.

“What did…what did you do?” I stammered.

“I write books.”

I was shocked. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I loved to read, and writing for a living would be a dream come true.

“You’re an author?” I asked excitedly. “What kind of books?”

He shook his head. “Nothing you’d want to read.”

“What are they?”

“Romance.”

Romance was the only genre I read. My eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

I chuckled and looked away. After regaining my composure, I shifted my eyes back to him. With his arms crossed, and his head cocked slightly, he looked back at me straight-faced. His arms were tattooed to his wrists, his face was covered in stubble, and his muscles were swollen from his early morning workout. He reeked of male bravado, and looked like a man no one would want to piss off.

One thing he didn’t look like was a romance novelist.

“Seriously,” I said. “I want to know. I mean, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“I am serious,” he said, his tone flat and convincing. “I write steamy contemporary romance novels.”

It seemed he was being serious. At least he looked like he was. Still, I felt compelled to ask again. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You write romance novels?” I asked, more trying to convince myself than have him actually answer me. “That’s what you do for a living?”

“It sure is. It was a crappy living at first. Now it’s pretty damned good. Took some time and quite a bit of dedication, though.”

I already found him intriguing. Now I found him a whole new level of intriguing, if there was such a thing.

“Under your name?” I asked excitedly. “Can I read them?”

“Sure. As long as you’re not easily embarrassed. Google TD Reynolds. That’s the name I write under. My early stuff is pretty hit and miss, but my new stuff is right up there with the rest of the independently published smut that’s out there.”

“You are serious, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “You asked.”

“I just…”

He leaned back and shot me a look. “You just what? You thought because I was a biker that I had to work at a Harley shop, deal dope, or bust skulls for a living?”

“I’m generally not that way. In fact, I was raised to think differently. But, yeah.” I smiled. “Kind of.”

“Me writing romance novels is no different than you working here,” he said. “If asked, most men would say you should be home doing laundry, making dinner, or working as a receptionist somewhere. Maybe a hairstylist. Not a prison guard, that’s for sure. I don’t want people having a mind filled with preconceived notions about me, so I try to look at everyone with an open mind.”

“I try to. But, it isn’t always easy. Especially in here,” I said in an apologetic tone.

“Well, I’m a biker, and I write romance novels. The fellas I ride with don’t know it, though.”

I was shocked. “They don’t?”

“I used to be a freelance editor. They all assume that’s what I’m still doing. I never really felt the need to tell them otherwise, and no one’s asked. They’d give me a mile of shit if they knew.”

I laughed at the thought. “I bet they would.”

“One of these days they’re sure to figure it out, though.”

“How’d you get started writing?”

“When Amazon made independently publishing books easy, I wrote a coming of age novel. It failed miserably. A literary agent told me to write an erotic novel, so I did. Damned thing went to #1 in Erotic Romance. I’ve written forty or so since. Seem to have a knack for it.”

“Forty?” I gasped. “Over how much time?”

“Four years.” He shrugged. “Almost five.”

“Oh. Wow.”

One inmate began kicking his cell door, and then a few others followed suit. In no time, the cell block was filled with the sound of their pounding and screaming. As much as I didn’t want to, I needed to stop talking to Reynolds and return to my duties.

“Okay. I’ll look you up.” I pushed the cart forward a few inches, and then took one last look at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He grinned. “I look forward to it.”

I couldn’t wait to find his books. I wondered if they’d give me any insight as to who he was, or if the content of his romantic novels was nothing more than fantasies, hopeful scenarios, and fabricated tales.

Twenty-two hours later, I was driving back to work on zero hours sleep with a clit that was so sensitive I couldn’t cross my legs. Tate Reynolds may have had many talents, but the one that kept me up all night was his ability to write a sex scene.

I had a lot of questions for him, most of which I normally wouldn’t have the guts to ask. Considering there was a two-inch thick steel door separating us, and knowing I’d never see him again outside the walls of the jail, I hoped I could somehow manage the courage to do so.

In half an hour, I was going to find out.

I just hoped my clit stopped vibrating by the time I got there.